the cost of keeping it together

There was a year in my life where I cried at every meal. I don’t mean one bad week. A literal year, or perhaps even longer. I might have blocked out most of it. It was at breakfast especially. I’d be sitting there spreading Nutella on my piece of toast and someone would say something, something would move in me and that was it, I was gone. About fifteen years old and leaking at the table.

I don’t remember anyone asking me what was wrong or coming into my room after I ran off to talk it out. No, hey, what’s happening with you. Instead I got, why are you doing this? why are you causing a scene? why can’t we just have a normal breakfast? (Causing a scene. Like I woke up and thought, you know what would be fun today!)

When something loud was happening at the table and they wanted it to stop, and I was the one making it, so. Fix the girl, fix the breakfast. Simpl…